March 4. My impressions of that first winter in New York are curiously dim except for the extreme loneliness of my life, which, after the close companionship with my father for so many years, seemed at times almost unbearable. Indeed, I doubt if I could have borne the long hours of solitude and toil but for my occasional glimpses of you. I should think myself fatuous in claiming that you influence me physically,—that I am conscious of a material glow, ecstasy, thrill, call it what you please, when with you,—if I had not once heard Agnes declare that she always felt, when you were in the room, as if she had been drinking champagne; showing that I am not the only one you can thus affect.

My pleasantest recollection is of our long talk in my employer's study; and strangely enough, it was my books which gained it for me. Mr. Whitely, when I first came into his service, had just endowed a free library in one of the Western cities where some of his oil interests centred, and I hinted to him the purchase of my books as a further gift to his hobby. The suggestion did not meet with his approval,—I fear because there was not the self-advertising in it that there is in a money gift,—but after a week he told me that he might buy the collection to furnish his editorial study. "I plan," he said, "to make my office attractive, and then have informal literary receptions once a week. I shall therefore require some books, and as your library should be marked by breadth and depth of learning, I presume it will serve my purpose."

"There are quite a number of Eastern manuscripts of value," I told him, "and few of the books are in languages that can be read by the average New Yorker."

"That gives the suggestion of scholarship which I wish," he acknowledged.

We easily came to terms under these circumstances, and I cannot tell you how happy I was to find myself once more surrounded by my books. As soon as they were in place and the study was handsomely furnished, my employer issued cards; and though he had nothing in common with the literary and artistic set, the mere fact that he controlled the columns of a great paper brought them all flocking to his afternoons. It is a case of mutual cultivation, and I am sick of being told to write puffs of books and pictures. Even foreigners do not seem above this log-rolling, and toady to the editor of the influential journal. And yet we think Johnson mean-spirited for standing at Chesterfield's door! It humiliates me to see writers and artists stooping so low merely to get notices that are worthless in a critical sense, and doubly am I degraded that mine is the pen that aids in this contemptible chicane.

You, Mrs. Blodgett, and Agnes came to one of these afternoons, and made me happy, not alone by your presence, but by an insinuated reproof, which meant, I thought, that you had become enough interested in me to care what I did. You expressed surprise at my being there, and so I explained to you that I had become Mr. Whitely's secretary.

"And is your work congenial?" you asked.

I shrugged my shoulders, and quoted, "Civilized man cannot live without dining."

"But you told me you were making a living. Is not a crust with independence and a chance to make a name better than such work?"

"If one is free, yes. But if one must earn money?"

"I had somehow fixed it in my mind that you were en garÇon. One's fancies are sometimes very ridiculous. Who invented the mot that a woman's intuitions were what she had when she was wrong?"

"Some man, of course," I laughed. "And you were right in supposing me a bachelor."

"How little people really know about one another," you observed, "and yet we talk of the realism of life! I believe it is only in fiction that we get it."

"Napoleon said, 'Take away history and give me a novel: I wish the truth!' Certainly, our present romance writers attempt it."

"Only to prove that truth is not art."

"How so?"

"To photograph life in literature is no more art than a reproduction of our street sounds would be music."

"Painting and sculpture are copying."

"And the closer the copy, the less the art."

"Then you would define art as"—

"The vivifying of work with the personality of the workman."

"That is not very far from Saadi's thought that art is never produced without love."

"I have to confess that you mention an author of whom I had never even heard till I read The Debatable Lands. The extracts printed there made me think he must be one of the great philosopher poets of the world. Yet there is no copy of his works at the Lenox."

"There are copies of all his writings here."

"I think I shall disobey Polonius by trying to be a borrower," you announced, and turning to Mr. Whitely, you asked, "Do you ever loan your books?"

"To lend to you would be a pleasure, and give added value to the volume," assented Mr. Whitely, joining us. "Take anything you wish."

"Thank you so much. Will you let me see what you have of Saadi, so that I may take my choice?"

"You were speaking of"—hemmed Mr. Whitely.

"Saadi."

"Ah, yes. Dr. Hartzmann knows where it is."

When I had led the way to the proper shelf, you selected the Gulistan, opened it, and then laughed. "You have the best protection against borrowers. I envy both of you the ability to read him in the original, but it is beyond me."

"As you read Latin, you can read Gentius' translation of the Bostan," I suggested, taking the book down.

"How do you know that I can read Latin?" you asked.

I faltered for a moment, too much taken aback to think what to reply, and fortunately Mr. Whitely interposed quickly, "Miss Walton's reputation for learning is so well recognized that knowledge of Latin is taken for granted."

Taking advantage of the compliment, I surmised, "Perhaps you will care less to read the poet if I quote a stanza of his:—

"You only make me the more eager," you said, running over the pages.

"The book is worth reading," vouched Mr. Whitely.

"How good that is!" you appealed to him, laying your finger on lines to the effect that a dozen poor men will sleep in peace on a straw heap, while the greatest empire is too narrow for two kings.

"Very," answered my employer, after looking at the text with a critical air. If you could only have enjoyed the joke with me!

Suddenly, as I watched you, you became pale, and glancing down to learn the cause, I saw a manuscript note in my father's handwriting on the margin of the page. "Mr. Whitely," you asked huskily, "how did you get this book?"

Had you looked at me you would have seen one paler than yourself, as I stood there expecting the axe to fall. Oh! the relief when Mr. Whitely replied, "I bought it in Germany."

You closed the volume, remarking, "I do not think I will ask the loan, after all. He seems an author one ought to own."

"I hoped you would add an association to the book," urged Mr. Whitely.

"Thank you," you parried gravely, "but so old a volume can hardly be lacking in association. I think we must be going."

I took you down to the carriage, and Mrs. Blodgett kindly offered me the fourth seat. You were absolutely silent in the drive up-town, and I was scarcely less so as I tried to read your thoughts. What feelings had that scrap of writing stirred in you?

I have often since then recalled our parting words that afternoon, and wondered if I allowed a mere scruple—a cobweb that a stronger man would have brushed aside without a second thought—to wreck my life. If I had taken what you offered? Perhaps the time might have come when I could have told you of my trick, and you would have forgiven it. Perhaps—

You said to me graciously, when we separated at your door, "I shall be very happy, Dr. Hartzmann, if you will come to see me."

I flushed with pleasure, for I felt it was not a privilege you gave to many. But even as I hesitated for words with which to express my gratitude, I realized that I had no moral right to gain your hospitality by means of my false name; and when I spoke it was to respond, "I thank you for the favor most deeply, Miss Walton, but I am too busy a man for social calls."

Oh, my darling, if you had known what those few words cost me, and the struggle it was to keep my voice steady as I spoke them! For I knew you could only take them to mean that I declined your friendship. Hide my shame as I might try to do, I could not escape its pains. God keep you from such suffering, Maizie, and good-night.

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